Falling Tea
by LeeLee Lollipop
Summary: A falling cup, a violin song, a single text. They turn John's life upside down, perhaps not in a bad way. Post-Reichenbach


John slowly walked into the kitchen, blinking sleep from his eyes. He took two cups from the cupboard and put the kettle on. While it boiled he listened for Sherlock.

"Are you ok?"

There was no answer, so he assumed that his friend was asleep. He couldn't remember the last time either of them had slept, it had just been case after case.

The kettle finally finished and he poured the cups, making sure the tea was perfect for Sherlock. He took them into the living room.

"You had better be awake, I made you a cup of -"

The cup hit the floor and smashed instantly. The room was empty. He'd done it again.

"Oh, God!" he moaned, taking in the emptiness of the room, the dusty violin case. He took a step, feeling the painful mimic of a limp begin in his left leg. His knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

A choking feeling swept over him and his eyes filled with hot tears. They spilled over his cheeks and dropped to the floor.

His chest seemed to ache and he felt a crushing loneliness. Looking at the violin case, he managed to stagger over to it and opened it with shaking hands.

The violin was there, polished, brown and untouched. His trembling fingers stretched out to brush over the wood, but stopped short.

He couldn't. Sherlock would know.

John turned and angrily punched the wall, sobbing. Sherlock _wouldn't_ know, he had no way of knowing. John slowly slid down the wall, his fingers pressed to his eyes, trying to stop the images flooding into his head:

Sherlock, throwing his phone behind him, the moment John knew that it was going to happen.

Sherlock, falling through the air, John praying uselessly that something would happen, that his friend wouldn't hit the floor.

Sherlock, laying broken on the pavement, his black curls matted with blood, the brilliant mind shining from his eyes dulled, the arrogant yet caring voice silenced.

John let out a cry and slammed his head back against the wall.

…...

Mycroft walked up the stairs the 221b. He'd thought it was a bad idea for John to stay here, but the doctor had insisted.

He opened the door and his eyes fell on the smashed cup. It had happened again.

"John."

He knelt beside the sobbing doctor, who instantly collapsed into Mycroft's arms and began to cry harder.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around the doctor and felt a sense of déjà vu.

~**Mycroft opened the door of the flat and his eyes widened as he saw the chaos of the room. A trickle of fear ran through him.**

"**Sherlock? Where are you, brother?"**

**Mycroft heard a crash and walked quickly to the next room.**

"**Sherlock?"**

**Mycroft got to the room just as Sherlock threw a chair at the wall then sank to the floor.**

"**Sherlock, what's wrong?"**

"**I can't do it! It's not working, I **_**can't do it**_**!"**

**Sherlock began to cry, loud keening sobs that pained Mycroft's heart.**

"**Oh, brother-mine." Mycroft sighed. He knelt beside his brother and enveloped him in a tight embrace. Sherlock turned his face into Mycroft's neck and sobbed. Tears came to Mycroft's eyes as he felt Sherlock's hopelessness.**

"**You're Sherlock Holmes. You single-handedly broke down my security systems when you were 17 years old; I think you'll be able to take care of a few men that don't even know you're coming for them."**

"**John." Sherlock sobbed. "He's hurting."**

**Mycroft nodded. "It will pass. He needs to grieve."**

"**I want to go home, Mycroft."**

**Mycroft sighed. He hated this, hurting his brother like this. "You can't, Sherlock. You cannot speak to John."**

**Sherlock's sobs grew louder, and Mycroft felt tears pour from his own eyes. "Forgive me, brother."~**

Mycroft held John until the doctor's sobs subsided.

John sniffed and looked at Mycroft. "Thanks you."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "I promised Sherlock that I would look after you. I intend to honour that promise, however long ago it was made."

John stood up. "I don't think I can go today, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded understandingly. "It's fine, John. I wasn't expecting you to come with me today."

"I'll go, just not…today." John sighed and ran a hand over his face and Mycroft inwardly winced at how old John looked in that moment. He looked like he had seen too much and never wanted to see it again.

"I'll be fine, Mycroft. I am fine."

"Evidently." Mycroft glanced around the room again and sighed. "I'll be in touch."

…...

John looked at the violin again. Faint memories of Sherlock playing ran through his head. Gently lifting the violin, he settled it under his chin the way Sherlock had done. Thinking about how he had watched Sherlock play, he lifted the bow and drew it across the strings slowly, lifting his fingers every now and then.

A sweet tune filled the air, the notes filled with longing for something that wasn't there. As he played, he had no was of knowing that Sherlock was stood listening at the door, tears pouring down his face at the simple yet haunting melody.

The music stopped and Sherlock began to move quietly away, but John's voice stopped him.

"Just come home, Sherlock. You've got to be alive, you can't be dead, you wouldn't do that to me. Just come home."

Sherlock whipped out his phone and opened a new text. "I can't come home, John. Not yet." he whispered. He sent the text and left, just a shadow in the backstreets of London.

John felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He put the violin in it's case gently before opening his phone. His eyes widened as he read the text.

_I'll come home soon. Not yet, but soon. Your playing needs a bit of work. SH._

John laughed delightedly and looked out of the window, then frowned. The street was empty.

There was a slight movement to the left that drew John's eyes.

A man stood in the entrance to an alley, a long coat wrapped around his tall body. John's eyes focused on the scarf that was around the man's neck.

John smiled and raised a hand. The man did the same, before vanishing down the alley.

Opening a new text on his phone, John added Mycroft as the recipient.

_Don't bother asking me to go to the grave. I won't be visiting it anymore._

There was an answering text almost immediately and John chuckled at Mycroft's worry.

_What? Are you alright? Why not?"_

Smiling, John sent back a text.

_No point visiting an empty grave, is there?_

…_..._

_Mycroft chuckled as he saw John's reply. He looked up at the man sat in the chair across the desk._

"_I followed your orders; I did not speak to him once." the man said._

_A smile spread across Mycroft's face. "Very true. Well played, well played indeed. And when are you going back?"_

_Sherlock looked up and smiled. "Soon, Mycroft. Soon."_


End file.
